I circled a big pot hole in the old pavement, turned onto Dead Cat, and saw the crime scene
under a busted street lamp. Cops and witnesses were nowhere in sight. Gauzy moonlight sifted onto
the bodies of seven shapeshifters. None of them was dead.
Two werewolves in animal form swept the scene for scents, carefully padding in widening
circles from the narrow mouth of Dead Cat Street. Most shapeshifters in beast form ran larger than
their animal counterparts, and these proved no exception: hulking, shaggy beasts taller and thicker
than a male Great Dane. Past them, two of their colleagues in human form packed something
suspiciously resembling a body into a body bag. Three others walked the perimeter, presumably to
keep the onlookers out of the way. As if anyone was dumb enough to linger for a second look.
At my approach, everything stopped. Seven pairs of glowing eyes stared at me: four green, three
yellow. Judging by the glow, the shapeshifter crew hovered on the verge of going furry. One of
their own was dead and they were out for blood.
I kept my tone light. «You fellows ever thought of hiring out as a Christmas lights crew? You'd
make a fortune.»
The nearest shapeshifter trotted to me. Bulky with muscle but fit, he was in his early forties. His
face wore the trademark expression the Pack presented to the outsiders: polite and hard like the rock
of Gibraltar. «Good evening, ma'am. This is a private investigation conducted by the Pack. I'm
going to have to ask you to please move on.»
Ma'am . . . Oy.
I reached into my shirt, pulled out the wallet of transparent plastic I carried on a cord around my
neck, and passed it to him. He glanced at my ID, complete with a small square of enchanted silver,
and called out, «Order.»
Across the street a man congealed from the darkness. One moment there was only a deep night
shadow lying like a pool of ink against the wall of the building, and the next there he stood. Six-
two, his skin the color of bitter chocolate, and built like a prize fighter. Normally he wore a black
cloak, but today he limited himself to black jeans and T-shirt. As he moved toward me, muscles
rolled on his chest and arms. His face inspired second thoughts in would-be brawlers. He looked
like he broke bones for a living and he loved his job.
«Hello, Jim,» I said, keeping my tone friendly. «Fancy meeting you here.»
The shapeshifter who had spoken to me took off. Jim came close and patted Marigold's neck.
«Long night?» he asked. His voice was melodious and smooth. He never sang, but you knew he
could, and if he decided to do it, women would be hurling themselves into his path.
«You might say that.»
Jim was my partner from the days when I worked exclusively for the Mercenary Guild. Some
merc gigs required more than one body, and Jim and I tackled them together, mostly because we
couldn't stomach working with anybody else. Jim was also alpha of the cat clan and the Pack's
chief of security. I'd seen him fight and I would rather take on a nest of pissed-off vipers any day.
«You should go home, Kate.» A sheen of faint green rolled over his eyes and vanished, his
animal side coming to the surface for a moment.
«What happened here?»
«Pack business.»
The wolf on the left let out a short yelp. A female shapeshifter ran over to him and picked up
something off the ground. I caught a glimpse of it before she stuffed the object into a bag. A human
arm, severed at the elbow, still in a sleeve. We had just gone from code green seven to code green
ten. Shapeshifter murder. Accidental deaths rarely resulted in detached limbs strewn across the
intersection.
«Like I said, Pack business.» Jim glanced at me. «You know the law.»
The law said that the shapeshifters were an independent group, much like a Native American
tribe, with the authority to govern itself. They made their own laws and they had a right to enforce
them, as long as those laws didn't affect nonshapeshifters. If the Pack didn't want my help on this
investigation, there wasn't a lot I could do about it. «As an agent of the Order, I extend an offer of
assistance to the Pack.»
«The Pack appreciates the Order's offer of assistance. As of now, we decline. Go home, Kate,»
Jim repeated. «You look worn-out.»
Translation: shoo, puny human. Big, mighty shapeshifters have no need of your silly
investigative skills. «You squared this with the cops?»
Jim nodded.
I sighed, turned Marigold around, and headed home. Someone had died. I wouldn't be the one to
find out why. It irked me on some deep professional level. If it was anybody else but Jim, I
would've pushed harder to see the body. But when Jim said no, he meant it. My pushing wouldn't